For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Woman's Quest for Her Stolen Child

each other. I was
accustomed to a culture where fathers rule supreme and expect total
obedience. Afghan children did not talk back to their parents. They
were seen and not heard. American children were much more
self-assertive and argumentative, and could be seen throwing
tantrums in public. In the supermarket, I heard kids arguing with
their parents over their choice of foods, and in the shops heard
their demands for certain toys or fashions. Such audicity was
unheard of in my culture.
    A third shock lay in store. With my newly
acquired short skirts and bikinis, I longed to spread my wings, to
be freed from my father’s control and our traditional moral taboos.
In America the rights of women had found a voice, and I wanted to
be a part of that movement. But to my consternation, Papa and other
relatives expected me to continue living the life of an extremely
conservative Muslim girl, even in the heart of a land that knew
nothing and cared less about our traditions. In unison, my
relatives decreed there would be no disco dancing for Maryam
Khail.
    American girls were not only free to dress
how they liked, go where they liked without a chaperone and be
friends with boys, there was also a sexual freedom in America that
no Afghan girl could have ever imagined. Soon after arriving, I met
a lovely American girl who was pregnant. I inquired about her
husband and drew back in horror to hear she was unwed. Confused, I
blurted out, ‘But if you are not married, then how could you be
pregnant?’
    She snapped at me: ‘This is America. If you
have a problem with it, go back to your own country.’
    Papa and I soon moved out of Auntie Shagul’s
home and into a neat little apartment not far away. I was quickly
offered a job at an Afghan restaurant. Although I was a waitress
and not a short-order cook, I remembered my mother’s biggest fear
that America for me would mean an unsatisfactory life of flipping
burgers.
    The job, in my mind, was a transitional
position. I was determined to go to university. I vowed to save my
money and buy a car so I could drive myself to school. Meanwhile I
worked. I was soon popular with the restaurant’s clientele, who
were mainly Afghan exiles like myself. I felt quite contented,
although the same could not be said of Papa. After the initial
stimulation of visiting all his Afghan acquaintances who had
settled in Virginia, he became very dejected. His misery had one
source. When Mother died, she seemed to have taken half Papa’s
vitality with her into the grave. He had wept for weeks after her
death, his tears acting as a sedative to his misery. Although the
tears had ceased, his depression lingered.
    My fourth shock came in the form of a glut of
marriage proposals. There were many unmarried Afghan men living in
the area, and it appeared that every one of them was seeking a
bride. My father’s family background and good reputation meant that
many men wanted to link their family to my own. Soon Papa was fully
occupied once more – in fielding requests for the hand of his
daughter.
    Papa took the task to heart. He became driven
to see his youngest married, and he insisted that I must marry an
Afghan Pashtun. It was my sister’s fault. Shortly before Mother
died, Nadia had confessed a shocking truth. My sister had secretly
fallen in love and married a stranger. Not only was her chosen
partner a man unknown to our parents, Nadia had broken a number of
taboos: marrying a man not of our tribe or of our Muslim sect, a
man not even of our country. She had married an Iranian Shiite
Muslim.
    *
    For those unfamiliar with the two main
Islamic sects, they are called Sunni and Shiite. The Sunni and
Shiite have been in disagreement since the death of our Prophet
Mohammed, who failed to name a specific successor. Those closest to
the Prophet disagreed as to whom would lead Islam. History tells us
that a terrible brawl ensued, with each group naming their own
favored successor, and Islam split into two groups over the
quarrel. Now, after centuries of bitter quarrelling, the two sects
are still divided. Sunni parents sternly object to their children
marrying into Shiite families and Shiite families feel no less
passionate. People have been murdered for less.
    At the beginning Nadia tried to soften the
blow by telling my parents that she was in love with a Shiite and planned to marry. Only I knew she had gone ahead and married
him. However, as far as my parents were concerned, this was almost
as bad as a